


Take my hand and take a life

by canadianwheatpirates



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Angst, F/F, Prequel, Unhappy Ending, the horror of lyctorisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24190204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canadianwheatpirates/pseuds/canadianwheatpirates
Summary: "She unbuckles her sword belt, setting it off to the side. Cytherea supposes it’s better than trying to take it off her— her mind skitters away from the thought, unwilling to accept reality even as it barrels towards her."This is how Cytherea becomes a lyctor.
Relationships: Cytherea the First/Loveday the Seventh
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	Take my hand and take a life

“No,” Cytherea says. “Loveday, I won’t.” She’s propped up in the corner of the couch, too weak to sit with decorum. Her dress matches the jewel-green upholstery — aside from the bloodstains. She looks so small.

Loveday falls to her knees in front of her. “Cyth,” she pleads. “You saw how quickly the fourth recovered from his injuries.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t do that to you. It’s so cruel—” Her objection is drowned out by another coughing fit. It drags on longer than the last, and it  _ hurts _ in a way that it hadn’t before. They’re running out of time.

Loveday takes her hand, gripping it tightly. She’s so  _ strong _ . “I’m going to die for you sooner or later. It’s my  _ job. _ Please, let me make it worthwhile.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” Her voice rattles, and she coughs again. “What if it’s a waste?”

“It won’t be. The sixth agrees with me. You were there.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I can’t watch you die like this.  _ Please _ .”

She chokes back a sob. Another one follows it, tearing out of her chest and racking her body. Finally, she nods. Loveday springs to her feet, then leans down and kisses her desperately; she returns it with equal fervour, tangling her fingers in her cavalier’s hair. It’s the last kiss of too, too few, and she can’t help crying into it. She should have acted before this, when she was stronger, should have dragged Loveday to bed and shown her the depth of her appreciation. They both know it would have been improper. She should have anyway.

Too soon, Loveday pulls back. She unbuckles her sword belt, setting it off to the side. Cytherea supposes it’s better than trying to take it off her— her mind skitters away from the thought, unwilling to accept reality even as it barrels towards her. Loveday draws her offhand dagger, that fine, gold-inlaid blade that she’s seen deflect hundreds of cuts; she holds it out to Cytherea and says, “With me?”

She wants to recoil from it, wants to beg and argue. Instead, she takes the hilt from her. They’ve made the decision; the least she can do is follow through with it, for Loveday’s sake.

Loveday brushes a thumb across her cheek, wiping away a stray tear. “It’s okay to cry,” she says, with that perfect, lopsided smile. There’s a smudge of Cytherea’s blood on her lip. She sits next to her, settling against Cytherea’s front; Cytherea wraps her free arm around her, holding her close. Her hand shakes. Loveday covers it with her own, holding the dagger steady. The point presses into her shirt, between her ribs, poised to slide right into her heart.

“One flesh, one end,” Loveday murmurs. She moves their hands, and the blade plunges into her chest. Cytherea clings to her, face buried in her neck, bawling. Loveday gasps and tenses, a dark stain spreading from the wound. Her hand falls away from the blade and Cytherea’s drops too, pulling her into a tight hug. Too soon, Loveday’s head lolls back against her shoulder. Her shallow breathing stops a moment after.

Even through the overwhelm of her grief, she feels Loveday's soul settling under her skin. It worked. Loveday's soul is a gulf inside her, an aching canyon so deep she can't see the bottom; she can sense the power there, waiting to be tapped, but she wouldn't even know how to begin. Instead she clings to her limp body, unable to do anything but cry until she’s exhausted.

The click of skeletal feet interrupt her. The others must have felt the shift in thanergy and sent them to assist. One of them takes Loveday's legs, and the other slides between them to hook under her shoulders. Before they can take the body, she pulls Loveday's dagger —  _ her _ dagger, now, she supposes — from between her ribs. It feels so much more natural in her hand now, a weight she's held a thousand times — yet only twice. She wipes it clean on her dress; she's dirty enough with blood and tears that she'll need to change before she presents herself to the others anyway. 

The skeletons wait for her permission to move. She doesn’t want to give it, loath to let them take her cavalier’s body. She lets out a long, shaky sigh, resigning herself to what has to be done, and nods; it would be wrong for her to keep it just to make herself feel better. They carry Loveday's body off. She'll be left somewhere beautiful to decay into the landscape, as befits the Seventh House. 

She hauls herself upright, still weak and trembling. "Even if I'm cured, I'm much weaker than you," she murmurs, as though Loveday can hear her. As though she needs to speak out loud to be understood. She certainly doesn’t  _ feel _ any stronger, but she chalks it up to the emotional turmoil. Strength will come as she recovers.

It has to. For Loveday’s sake.


End file.
